


hoping for a starlight

by Dawn_Blossom



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Ylisse and Plegia are at peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23538913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn_Blossom/pseuds/Dawn_Blossom
Summary: All of his finished pieces turn out lifeless. But nobody has ever called him out on it before.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Riviera | Libra/Sallya | Tharja
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	hoping for a starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [birdsofprey (graftedspirithide)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graftedspirithide/gifts).



> Happy Birthday! Have some rarepair food!
> 
> (Title is from [Stuck in Gravity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70mGSFDVbTQ) by Of Monsters and Men)

The local church is raising funds for the nearby children’s hospital.

Libra is a man of modest means, but he is happy to spare everything he is able to give for a worthy cause like this. When he cannot spare his money, he can at least spare his time.

There is nothing spectacular about his art, but his priestly brothers hinted that a painting would be a great asset to have at a fundraiser, and Libra cannot deny that such things do draw attention to these kinds of events. Perhaps it will still bring some small pleasure to whoever takes it home. And even if his work does not sell for much, any sale is money that will help the children. 

Yes, Libra is happy to put his skills to good use… But it is easier said than done. The artist is supposed to control the art, but more often than not, Libra finds the art controlling him.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, gazing at the portrait in front of him. A winged figure smiles at him from the page, a fruit resting in her outstretched hands, a motherly aura emanating from her, but…

Her teeth are too sharp, her eyes too narrow. He meant to paint a pomegranate, but the color is too dark. It almost looks like…

In his distraction, Libra does not notice the paint dripping from his brush until it is too late. A drop of red splatters onto the canvas, onto white teeth, and it’s entirely wrong.

“Is that Mila?” an unfamiliar voice asks, and Libra is so startled that he throws his paintbrush to the table.

Standing behind him is a woman with dark eyes and even darker hair. She is dressed in typical Plegian garb, though some of her clothing is concealed beneath the book she is clutching to her chest.

“Oh… Forgive me,” Libra says. “I was so focused on my task that I didn’t notice you. Are you searching for something? I believe there is a prayer being held across the hall…”

“I don’t need Naga’s blessings.” The woman chuckles. “And you haven’t answered my question. That painting of yours… It is of Mila, isn’t it?”

Libra looks back at his work, fighting back the urge to grimace. It was indeed _supposed_ to be Mila, but somehow he managed to twist the image of a mother into that of a monster.

“It’s too gruesome to be called the Kingsgrail,” he says, closing his eyes. “I’m afraid I’ll have to start anew. This is for a fundraiser, you see. I cannot offer a warped version of one of Valm’s major goddess.”

“Why not?” the woman asks. “Mila brought prosperity to the land, but I’m sure she must have torn out a few hearts along the way, too. The dragonkin have fangs and claws for a reason.”

“She probably followed her natural instincts on some occasions,” Libra agrees. “She had people that she needed to protect. Nevertheless, to portray her in such a way… It is grotesque. It is not beautiful.”

“I think it is,” the woman counters. “Not all of us flee from blood and gore, Priest. The squeaky-clean priests and clerics that hang around here may lose their lunches if you showed them this, but _I_ find it rather… intriguing.”

Libra holds his tongue. It is not for him to decide what other people find beautiful. To him, the painting is ugly. It reflects the parts of himself that are ugly, the darkness lurking inside him that he has once again failed to suppress. The Naga faithful told him that there were no demons inside of him, but sometimes Libra cannot help but wonder what they would think if they saw what he was truly capable of.

“Do you want it, then?” he offers, to the woman’s shock.

“You _do_ realize giving paintings away is no way to gain money in a fundraiser…?” 

“As I said, I will have to start anew for that,” Libra says. “There is simply no way I can sell this one. If you have any desire for it, I would be happy for it to go with someone who appreciates it.”

The woman stares at the painting. She is silent for so long that Libra is just about to tell her that of course she is not obligated to take it, but then she finally chuckles.

“It’s missing your signature,” she says. “Sign it, and I’ll take it off your hands for you.”

Libra hesitates. He does not want to claim ownership of this terrible thing.

But he supposes that it is the terrible things _inside_ him that are truly the problem. and he adds his name to the canvas.

“Libra, huh…” The woman smirks. “I’m Tharja. Remember that. Or don’t. Either way, this won’t be the last time we see each other.”

“Oh?”

“My friend will be getting married soon,” Tharja says. “I had to make sure this place was… suitable. Luckily for you, you pass.”

There is a frightening intensity in her eyes, and Libra cannot help but wonder just what exactly she would have done if the church had come up short of her expectations.

… Still, he cannot be rude.

“How wonderful. We hold many splendid weddings here,” Libra says. Even Exalt Emmeryn and her wife Phila held a private ceremony in this church, though it would feel too much like needless bragging to say so aloud. “I look forward to meeting your friend.”

Tharja’s dark laughter may have been ominous, but Libra didn’t miss the way she subtly looped around to the donation box before leaving the room. 

In truth, it isn’t just her friend he’s looking forward to meeting. He’s looking forward to seeing her again, too.

* * *

There is still something wrong with the painting Libra provides for the fundraiser. It just isn’t _quite_ as wrong as his other attempts.

There is nothing violent or cruel in the shape of Naga’s face. He had chosen pastel colors, nothing too dark or too vibrant, and they give the work a softness appropriate for the peace-loving goddess. 

And yet… there is no warmth. There is no spark of spirit in Naga’s eyes. The goddess isn’t supposed to be this lifeless. What kind of priest is he? Does he love Naga so little that he cannot even capture a sliver of her essence?

But the other priests do not make note of it. They praise his artistry as though they have never beheld anything more beautiful.

Are they simply too kind, or are they too _blind?_

Libra does not challenge them aloud, of course. This fundraiser is not about him. If someone finds enough merit in his work to pay for it, then that is all the better for the children who need healing.

He simply heads over to his table to set up his display. The place is surprisingly crowded today, though Libra soon discovers why when he catches a glimpse of blue hair. It seems Prince Chrom has come to make a donation to the cause himself. Libra has always admired the Exalt and her siblings precisely because they do things like this. The church did not even have to ask.

But Libra does not even have time to express his gratitude before Chrom is being dragged off by someone in a hooded coat. By the look on the prince’s face, he has no objections.

Libra is just about to turn his focus back to his table when he feels a sudden cold draft by his shoulder.

“Hello again,” a familiar voice drawls.

“Ah!” Libra quickly swallows his surprise. “It’s good to see you, Tharja. I wondered if you might come today. You seem to be the generous type.”

Tharja scowls.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says. “My friend was persuaded to come here by their lover. I only tagged along to make sure trouble stays far away from them.”

“How kind of you.” Libra disregards Tharja’s scoff. “Though you may perhaps still stumble across something that catches your eye today.”

“I think I’ve seen enough,” Tharja says, glaring. Gesturing to the painting in front of her, she shakes her head. “Just what is this?”

“You recognized Mila so easily. Surely you must recognize Naga,” Libra says. “She is… having a peaceful moment.”

“A peaceful moment,” Tharja repeats. She sounds incredulous, which Libra supposes is fair. Naga looks not as though she is experiencing peace, but as though she is not experiencing anything at all. “Hmm. How much is it?”

“O-Oh…” Libra blinks. “There is no set price. How much do you think is fair?”

Tharja’s eyes gleam as she thinks.

“How about this?” she asks, sliding him a substantial amount of gold.

“This is… more than enough, yes.” And Tharja says she isn’t generous! “The painting is all yours.”

“Small price to pay for what I’m about to do with it,” Tharja says. As she holds up the painting, a smirk spreads across her face. Then, suddenly, she rips the thing apart.

“Er…”

To be sure, that is what Libra wanted to do with it as well. But he is not entirely sure how he’s meant to respond to something like that.

“This doesn’t even look like it’s yours,” Tharja says. “It could be from any bland book of history or theology in the world. You haven’t put your soul into it at all.”

Libra’s breath hitches. All of his finished pieces turn out lifeless. But nobody has ever called him out on it before.

“I have much to improve on,” he says.

“Your painting of Mila was superior,” Tharja says. “It captured the passion that burns within the dragonkin. I know you understand passion.”

Libra shakes his head. 

“I was… not feeling myself that day,” he says, and it’s almost the truth. He was feeling too much of himself, and not enough of the man he wants to be. It is a problem all the same. “What I painted was overly dark. It wasn’t what I meant to convey.”

“Did you mean to convey nothingness?” Tharja acts. “Is Naga’s divinity false, perhaps?”

“... No,” Libra says. “No, you were right to destroy it. It wasn’t right, either.”

“Not feeling yourself that day,” Tharja echoes sardonically. 

“I’m afraid not,” Libra says.

“Careful. Get too sick in the head and you’ll become a zealot.” Tharja fixes him with an intense stare. “You know you can’t run from it.”

“Run from… it?” Libra asks. He feels chilly again; is there another draft?

“You know what I’m talking about,” Tharja says. “I thought I sensed it last time. I know I sense it today. You can’t run from the darkness inside of you. It will chase you relentlessly until you are so worn down that it can blindside you.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience…” Libra says quietly. He is shaken. The demons inside him are not used to being perceived.

“Maybe I am,” Tharja says. “Or maybe it’s not at all the same. I _like_ the dark. I’m not telling you to embrace it. Just acknowledge it sometimes. Is the canvas not a safe enough place for you to meet it?”

“Is any place safe for an abandoned child?” Libra asks. “For a lonesome wretch who was completely lost until he stumbled across Naga’s followers?”

He doesn’t know what compels him to confess his past to Tharja like this… But strangely, admitting it aloud makes him feel a little better

Tharja’s eyes flash, and she looks down.

“I can’t answer that,” she says. “I just don’t think that painting even Naga behind a mask does any good. But what do I know?”

“No, I…” Libra sighs, and a tiny portion of the tension inside him escapes with his breath. “I admire your perspective. Perhaps there will come a day when I, too, can find beauty in the darkness.”

* * *

It is no easy task to confront the parts of you that you have tried to bury.

Libra tries to start off with simple sketches. Dogs morph into ravenous wolves, and it is almost frightening how quickly his hands can move now that he has given his imagination free reign. He tarnishes cityscapes with the colors of his filthy childhood, bringing back memories of times he does not cherish. He dares not attempt Naga again, but when he tries to capture Duma on a page, he is reminded of the War Father’s spiral downward.

Try as he might, Libra cannot see anything beautiful in these works. 

Nevertheless, he is starting to see beauty in an entirely different kind of darkness.Unforgettable gray eyes haunt his mind, but there is nothing horrific about them. Tharja likes the darkness she embraces, and it only enhances her spirit.

Libra doesn’t normally work with charcoal… But then, he doesn’t normally draw people he knows, either.

* * *

“Oh yes, I’m sure Chrom will be _delighted_ to hear that you can’t accomodate a few simple Plegian traditions because they make reference to the fell dragon,” Libra hears Tharja mutter. “It isn’t as though he’s marrying the Grimleal High Priest’s heir… Oh, wait.”

“Yes, well, but…” a young, terrified priest stammers.

“Is there a problem here?” Libra asks, interrupting the two with his presence. “If you need help making some adjustments to the procedures, I’m sure I can help.”

“Oh… Libra.” The young priest is visibly relieved. “Hah… Milady, I’m afraid I have, uh… prayers to attend to right now. But I will leave you in my most gracious brother’s capable hands.”

The young priest flees at once, and Tharja fixes Libra with her unimpressed gaze.

“I take it you’re here regarding your friend’s wedding again,” Libra says. “And your friend is…”

“The Grimleal High Priest’s heir, what of it?” Tharja asks, her gaze turning into a glare.

Libra shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says. “... Duma and Mila used to be cursed by our religion, too, after Naga kicked them off the continent. It was only later revision that brought them back into our good graces.”

“And you think this is the same thing?” Tharja scoffs.

Of course it isn’t. Grima’s dispute with Naga was no falling-out. Even so…

“Grima is Plegia’s patron deity,” Libra says. “There is enough room in these halls for him to watch over the marriage of one of his people.”

“Heh…” Tharja averts her gaze. “I suppose it wasn’t a mistake to come here after all. I’ll have to introduce you to my friend some time. I’m sure the two of you would have quite the theological discussion.”

“I’d like that.”

Tharja turns to leave, and Libra’s eyes suddenly widen with realization.

“Ah, wait,” he says. “I have something to give you. It isn’t much, but… Since you had to tear apart the artwork you bought, I thought the least I could do was make something to take its place.”

“The way I recall it, I paid to tear it apart,” Tharja says. “... But don’t let that stop you. I’ll wait long enough for you to show this new one to me.”

Libra returns after a few minutes with his charcoal drawing in hand. 

“It isn’t much,” he says. “But I’ve been trying out your advice. It’s slow work, but I do believe I am improving. This is just a small token of my gratitude.”

Tharja takes the picture from him. She glances down at it, and her expression freezes.

“This… is…” she murmurs. “This is… me?”

“I may not have captured your appearance exactly,” Libra says apologetically. “I did not have you there as a model, you see. But your heart and soul… they spoke to me. I could not forget them.”

“Hee…” Tharja quickly moves the picture up so that Libra can no longer see her expression, but not quickly enough for Libra to miss the smile spreading across her face. “Ahem… Well, this certainly is an improvement over your last portrait. I’ll have to keep up with your work.”

“Really?”

“Yes. To think you’d turn _me_ into a patron of the arts.” Tharja lowers the drawing again, her expression once again cool. “Your Mila painting is already hanging in my room. At this rate I’m going to have to start calling myself a _collector._ ”

And Libra finds that it is his turn to smile.


End file.
